


you're fire, taking me higher

by feistycadavers



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Sex, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossdressing, Finger Sucking, M/M, Mirror Sex, Pole Dancing, Recreational Drug Use, Remixed, Rewrite, Rimming, Sex Work, Sexual Confusion, Slow Burn, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: “You realize men are gonna hit on you right?” John asks.“They already hit on me,” Tim says. “I literally look like an art school goth girl.” John cocks his head, considers it.“I guess that's fair,” he says. “I'm gonna get the pipe and shit. And change your freakin’ Netflix crap because I’m not gonna watch a Holocaust documentary while I'm getting stoned.”this is literally just my fic starfuckers but reworked as a tim/john fic, which is what it should have been in the first place, cuz it's better and more in character like this anyway
Relationships: John 5/Tim Sköld
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	you're fire, taking me higher

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [starfuckers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339901) by Anonymous. 



> sorry if you saw the email notification that i posted a work and then realized it wasn't new and were disappointed
> 
> LIKE I SAID. SAME FIC. SLIGHTLY REWORKED. 
> 
> somebody on tumblr made an out of context band fics post with two quotes from starfuckers and then i was like "julia imagine this fic but john's the stripper cuz fuck j*ordie wh*te" and then they were like "make tim the baby slut" and then this happened. i was originally just gonna name swap and then reread like that for my own amusement but then it was accidentally better than the original.
> 
> shout out to julia for john-picking this for me cuz the rapist has a potty mouth and john doesn't so i had to edit a fuckton of dialogue and i have ADHD so i missed like, so many swear words. had to edit for physical description too and i changed a couple smaller details and bits of dialogue to make them better but it's mostly just a name swap. but seriously. it's way better like this.
> 
> lore: john dances exclusively to sleazy 80s metal songs. i have tried so hard to lift a title from girls girls girls by motley crue for the meme but i cannot do it. so you're gonna get the sub par title from piece of your action. which is the dirtier song but girls girls girls is literally about strippers so i wanted a title from there SIGH whatever.
> 
> bonus: if you wanna follow a really incredibly talented stripper on the gram, @spinninshae_ is ya girl. she's actually incredible go send her money. john wishes he had what shae has
> 
> seriously don't be mad at me for just reposting a fic reworked as a different ship i'm only posting this cuz julia said i need to so. aight
> 
> ETA 2021: fuck marilyn manson destroy abusers believe women <3 in this house we don't support rapists so here's yr disclaimer that i do not support manson as a person or an artist and this character is a fictionalization of his public persona prior to women coming forward about his shitty behavior.

It's Saturday night and Tim is laid out on the couch watching another documentary on Netflix. He figures he's probably the most boring person in Fort Lauderdale, and that's saying something considering the number of old people retired around here. He's mostly waiting for John to get home so they can smoke a bowl and he can tell him about whatever sloppy shit went down at the club tonight. John is always full of good stories. Especially now that he's got the top billing at work. Tim delivers pizzas, which is exactly as shitty as it sounds.

Tim hears John's key in the lock and pauses his documentary, sitting up and looking over at the door as John makes his entrance. The door opens and John trips in, nearly dropping his bag of clothes and his keys.

“Fuck,” John says.

“How was work?” Tim asks.

“Fucking fantastic,” John says, sounding like work was the absolute opposite of fantastic, on account of John only swears when Necessary. “Bachelorette party.”

“Oh no,” Tim says tragically. John dumps his bag on the table, digging through it.

“You'd think women would tip more generously,” John says, “with the whole objectification thing being relatable I guess? Because female strippers?” He pulls out a wad of ones and drops them in Tim's lap. “But nope. Ones.” He flops on the couch next to Tim. “The men may be gross but at least they tip with fives and tens. Christ.”

Tim rifles through all the ones – well, it's not all ones, because he finds a few bigger bills, including a twenty – and counts in his head. “This has to be like a hundred and fifty bucks though,” he says. “This is more than I make in a week.” John scoffs.

“Well it was a trash night for me,” he says. “Learn to walk in heels and I'll bring you in to try you out.”

“I'm way too straight to strip in a gay club,” Tim says.

“Please,” John says, taking his cash back. “I'm like, the only queer that dances there.”

“Seriously?” Tim asks.

“Yeah,” John says. “I'd bring you in but like. You have nothing to wear.” Tim snorts. John looks at him. “You have lingerie?”

“A bit, if you count jock straps,” Tim says. “I'd probably have to go shopping if I got the spot but I have stuff to try out in.” He pauses. “I mean, if I tried out.”

“Please,” John says. “You can borrow my heels but then you have to get your own after you get in. I really need somebody to fill the chair next to me because the gay guy on the other side of the empty space is trying to get up my ass far enough to chew my food for me.” Tim smiles weakly.

“Maybe I'll try,” he says. “He'll be disappointed to be stuck next to a straight guy then.”

“You realize men are gonna hit on you right?” John asks.

“They already hit on me,” Tim says. “I literally look like an art school goth girl.” John cocks his head, considers it.

“I guess that's fair,” he says. “I'm gonna get the pipe and shit. And change your freakin’ Netflix crap because I’m not gonna watch a Holocaust documentary while I'm getting stoned.”

x

Tim learns that he isn't much good at any of the fancy pole tricks that John tries to teach him. He learns that strip clubs are poorly lit even in daytime, and that he makes a pretty good femme. Even John looks impressed, which is saying something, considering that John regularly gets mistaken for a woman even when not in drag. Tim borrows a pair of John's flatforms and mismatches his stockings and teases his hair and does his makeup and just generally looks like a softer, girlier version of himself.

“You have to pick a name,” John says. “Pick a chick's name. It's way funnier that way.”

“What's yours?” Tim asks.

“Bette,” John says. He _does_ look like Bette Davis, and John being blonde with a penchant for horror. Makes sense.

Tim looks at himself in the mirror. With all the lace and the stockings, he does look rather glamorous.

“I wanna be Destroyer,” he decides. John stares at him.

“No,” he says. “You can’t call yourself Destroyer.”

“But I want to.”

“It’ll scare the hoes.”

Tim sighs. Fine. He can go for the overly saccharine ironic name then.

“Candy it is then.” John snort laughs at it.

Tim smooths his lace out and makes sure he's properly tucked. He wants to make a good impression. And apparently he does, because while Pogo, the club owner, is difficult to read, John is an open book. Slack jawed, blinking dumbly as he watches Tim sliding his ass up and down the pole. Pogo tells him he needs to learn more pole tricks and John quickly promises to help teach him during off hours. But he somehow gets the spot. Tim suspects John was a bit too biased when recommending him, or he probably lied to Pogo about his work experience to make him look good. Either way, he's in.

x

Tim goes shopping on the Thursday before his first weekend of work. There's not much in the thrift shop, but he finds a fishnet top at Goodwill that he thinks would be perfect. He gets a tacky pair of go go boots and at the dollar store he picks up some cheap stockings. He's on the couch in them, carefully ripping them open, when John gets home with takeout.

“I think I'm going to dance to Ministry,” Tim decides, “and I'm gonna wear my platforms I already have.”

x

Tim sits down at his chair. He puts down his makeup bag on the table and starts unpacking his clothes into the drawers. John sits in the chair next to him. Tim's vanity looks remarkably bare next to John's – there's makeup strewn across the surface, with several swear words and penises scratched into the paint. He's got shorts and bodystockings overflowing out the drawers. Tim folds his shredded stockings as much as possible and tucks them away.

“Did you bring your hairspray?” John asks, opening a compact and smearing white foundation on his face.

“Oh,” Tim says. “No. I forgot. It's cool though.” He hangs a couple bracelets on the drawer pulls.

“Maybe Brian will let you borrow some of his,” John says.

“Who's Brian?” Tim asks.

“The queer who sits at the chair next to yours,” John says. Tim looks over. There's several large containers of craft glitter and a feather boa.

“Ah,” Tim says. He unzips his makeup bag and digs. He's not unfamiliar with doing makeup, but he's not really that great. He mostly likes to make himself look as creepy as possible. He changes his mind and decides to dress himself first.

He wears the same thing as he auditioned in, a lace slip with some ruffled panties. He tucks carefully and manages to get his stockings on without tearing them any more than they're already torn. John is haphazardly smearing black makeup around his eyes.

“Hey,” a voice says behind them. Tim looks up from his makeup bag. “New guy?” This must be Brian. He's wearing a sheer mesh crop top. Definitely gay. Tim is straight but has had a penis in his mouth, so he figures he has the authority to figure these things out.

“Yeah,” Tim says. “I'm a friend of... Bette's.”

“Brian,” the guy says. He has bottle red hair. Also probably a sign of him being gay.

“Tim,” Tim says. “Well. My stage name is Candy.”

“Bette seriously talked you into a girl's name?” Brian says, sitting down. “You must be queer too.”

“Nope,” Tim says. He draws on one eyebrow but the other won't work so he decides fuck it and takes them both off.

“Trust, Brian,” John says, “if Tim was gay we would have done the intercourse by now. I live with him.”

“Shame,” Brian says. “Well I hope Tim likes being fawned over by men.”

“I'm not opposed to any type of fawning,” Tim remarks. He grins and pours out his makeup bag to pick colors. He opts for some sort of messy red eyeshadow look and black lips, powdering his face again before he gets his boots on.

“Are you going on floor tonight to do lap dances?” Brian asks, either to Tim or John, as he dusts himself with red glitter. Tim leans away so it doesn't fall on him.

“I am,” John says. “Bitches love the creepy doll look.” He smears the black around his eyes with his fingers.

“I guess I should,” Tim says. “Would probably pay off to meet people.”

“I, for one, look forward to seeing you pretend to be into these creepy old dudes,” John says. He snorts a laugh.

“I'm a good actor, I think,” Tim says.

“I'm going on the floor,” Brian says. “See you fairies later.”

“Lick my butt,” John sing-songs, smiling.

“I can't help but sense an underlying but aggressive sense of internalized homophobia with him,” Tim says. John scoffs.

“Brian licked my asshole for real,” he says. “He has some issues.” He puts his mascara down and sighs. “Should be about time for you to go on. Want me to announce you?”

x

Tim isn't nervous, really. He's gone past nervous, to the point where he doesn't even feel anxiety anymore. He's so far beyond being nervous that he's calm. He might throw up. Maybe he should've asked John to give the front row ponchos.

The good news is, the lights are bright enough that he can't see past the first few tables. That helps. He shrugs off the fur coat he borrowed from John and saunters down the stage to the pole.

Oddly enough, people whistle at him.

It's a strange feeling, Tim decides, having strangers want to fuck you. He can see it in the way they watch him swing his hips and slide down the pole. He peels the slip off and scratches his nails down his chest, lowering himself to crawl along the stage. Tim feels someone tuck a bill into the waistband of his panties and he must look like a whore. He can feel the pride welling up in his chest. And when he catches a very wide-eyed John peeking out from the backstage door, he can't help the grin on his face.

x

“Holy shit,” Tim says, setting down the final bill. “This is eighty-seven dollars.”

“My baby slut,” John says, grabbing Tim's head and kissing the top of it. “Now just wait till you start giving lap dances.”

x

John comes home from work on the Wednesday after Candy's premiere. He looks flustered, hurriedly rushing and stumbling over his words.

“People were asking where you were tonight,” John says, as soon as Tim has paused his film.

“What?” Tim asks.

“Apparently you were a hit,” John says. “You better come in tomorrow. And you better work floor.”

“Seriously?”

“One of my regulars says he has a fresh hundred dollar bill waiting for a private dance,” John says. He raises an eyebrow. Tim purses his lips.

“Right,” he says. “I'll go in with you tomorrow then.”

x

Lap dances, Tim learns, are difficult. They require an inordinate amount of arm strength that Tim does not possess. Plus, middle aged men don't really appeal to him, and pretending to be into them is a challenge. Also, John makes it really hard to concentrate.

Tim is currently schmoozing up to this guy, who's been sat on this couch in this exact spot since he got here. He's probably forty, wears a wedding ring, and when he got his wallet out to tip Tim, there were pictures of two little girls in it. Tim leaves the twenty hanging out of the stay up top of his stocking and climbs into the guy's lap.

Tim guides the guy's hands to his corseted waist, leaves them there as he shakes his hair out and circles his hips. It's when he turns around to sit back in the guy's lap and grind into him that John gets distracting.

John isn't purposely being distracting, which is part of what makes it so maddening. He's on the stage at the pole, dragging his hands up his thighs. Tim blinks rather stupidly, sits still in the guy's lap for a split second, and stares. John's legs are long for how small he is, and the way his shorts ride up when he hooks a knee around the pole is practically obscene. Tim hisses a little bit through his teeth. Oh yeah. Right. He has a job to do.

It's almost physically painful to turn himself away from his first glimpse of Bette – it doesn't even look like John on the pole. But he manages. He puts his hands on the guy's shoulders and rolls his hips over his lap, just an inch too high to make any contact. Tim pushes his hair out of his eyes and peeks, just for a second, back at John. At Bette.

John has his shorts pulled down under the curve of his ass, his tights sheer enough to show the lace of his panties. He reaches behind himself and grabs the back of his tights at the seam and tears them open, ripping them wide enough to slide a hand in.

Tim blinks a lot very quickly, turning back to this customer who now looks even more like a toad than before. Tim schemes, which is something he is very good at. He leans into the guy's ear, arches his back.

“Isn't Bette fucking hot?” Tim asks him, looking over at the stage where he's now lost the dress. “He's so sexy.” The words sound weird coming out of his mouth, mainly because he's never called John Bette before now and also because calling his male best friend sexy is not the sort of compliment he usually gives.

“Do you two dance together?” the customer asks, looking over with him. Tim manages to stifle his initial reflex to sputter out a no.

“We haven't,” Tim says. He laughs softly. “I'm not sure Bette dances with anyone.”

“You ought to,” the customer says. Tim watches as John gathers his cash on stage and takes his dress backstage with him. _John has a nice butt_ , Tim thinks. _In a totally straight way_ , Tim also thinks.

“Maybe someday,” Tim says. He flicks his hair back and sits back in the customer's lap.

x

“Tim, you need to be onstage in like two minutes."

“Yeah, that's not happening.”

“Why?”

“I have eighteen buckles on each boot.”

x

It takes him a couple weeks, but Tim learns that he can watch John be Bette and maybe want to do bad things to Bette but not be into John. Bette looks enough like a girl that Tim decides wanting to bend him over isn't all that gay. Even if it was a little gay he probably wouldn't mind. Tim is comfortable being straight. Candy is the ambiguously queer one.

x

Tim steps out onto the floor in a brand new pair of six inch flatform boots. He's perfectly comfortable being a six foot two image of aggressive femininity. He fans his face to make sure his false eyelashes have stuck firmly to his lids and steps out to find a guy who wants some company.

He passes John, who's perched on the arm of a customer's chair. John looks him over, maybe stares a bit. Tim looks good. It only makes sense that John would gawk a bit. He winks a false lash. John snorts a laugh and smiles to himself like he's surprised Tim took to cross dressing so well.

Tim finds a client, one who's very interested in his new boots. Foot and shoe fetishists, Tim has learned, tip very well. Tim sits on the back of the couch and drapes his legs across the client's lap, letting him fawn over them. He sneaks a glance back over at John and his customer.

John's standing now, his legs straddling his customer's lap as he sways his hips. The customer brings a hand up to touch John's waist but he playfully swats it away and gestures for him to keep his hands to himself.

“Who are you watching?” Tim's client asks, peering over with him.

“Bette is a friend of mine,” Tim says. “He's sexy isn't he?” It sounded fake a week ago but Tim is starting to believe his own words now. Yeah. Bette is sexy.

“I love his boots,” the client says, which is when Tim sort of tunes him out. Foot and shoe fetishists, Tim has also learned, only care about feet and shoes.

“Why don't you kiss mine?” Tim remarks, and the client does. _Foot and shoe fetishists are truly a wonder of nature_ , Tim thinks to himself.

He peers over back at John, and his client is clearly not versed in the etiquette of strip clubs. The guy is clearly not aware of the no touching rule, because John keeps removing his hands from his waist or his hips. Tim lowers his brows and his eyes dart around to spot a security guard, but there isn't one. The client pushes his hand up John's skirt.

“Excuse me, love, but I'll be right back,” Tim says, swinging his boots over the client's head and vaulting over the back of the couch. He storms over, nearly knocking over a waitress in the process, shoves John out of the way, and promptly punches the client in the face.

“Tim,” John says loudly, looking up at Tim at a very harsh angle.

“What the fuck don't you understand about not touching in this club?” Tim shouts in the client's face. He's holding his jaw and staring at him.

“Fuck you,” the client spits. “Whores are all the same.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Tim yells back. He grabs the guy's shirt and has flung him onto the ground and gotten two more good punches in before security and John yank him off. Tim tries to shove a guard off him but they get the client out before he can get free.

“What the hell,” John says, once he and security have let Tim go. Tim is patting at his hair, making sure it's all still in place. “You don't have to Hulk out on a guy every time he doesn't understand personal space.”

“I do when it's your personal space,” Tim says firmly. He brings a careful finger to his eyelid. “Are my eyelashes still on?”

“I can't believe you,” John says, but he's laughing, and Tim smiles. “Sorry I used your real name by the way.”

“Please,” Tim scoffs. “As if I care. If you'll excuse me I have a boot fetishist to attend to.” He strolls back over to the couch and lays his long legs back across his clients lap. John stays stood there, staring, as Tim smiles over the back of the couch at him.

x

Tim never thought he'd be at a strip club before noon, yet here he is.

He's here early with John, who's very attached to his cup of coffee. John isn't usually awake before three, but he's doing Tim a favor. John is an encyclopedia of pole tricks. Tim is not. Tim wants to learn inversions. John has sort of reluctantly agreed to teach him some things under the stipulation that Tim buy him coffee. So John is nursing his coffee and Tim is taking off his fur coat, waiting for John to wake up the rest of the way. Enough to spin without falling off the pole.

“You alright with me staying in this dress?” John asks, reluctantly removing his coat. He's wearing one of his little silk slip dresses, the blue one, with fishnets, as usual. Tim looks off to the side, considering it briefly. This is John, not Bette. Tim just has to be careful to not want to fuck John.

“Whatever, man,” Tim says, sitting down and sipping his tea. Tim doesn't drink coffee.

“Cool,” John sighs. He takes another drink of coffee and sets it on the edge of the stage. “So inversions are pretty simple. It's just a matter of getting your legs over your center of gravity.” Tim nods as John hops up onto the stage, dusting his hands off on his dress. “You basically just grab the pole like this-” John grips the pole with his right hand about eye level and the other above his head “-and then just kinda.” He sort of just swings a leg up and drops his head back and kicks his legs up and over, out on either side of the pole, then crosses them around it. He looks back over at Tim, his halo of blonde hair hanging as he asks, “Got that?”

“Not at all,” Tim says.

“I'm a horrible teacher,” John says, still squeezing the pole with his thighs and hanging there inverted. Tim swallows thickly. John's dress has ridden up and he can see the opaque part of the fishnets high on his thighs. He unfolds himself from the pole and Tim sighs, maybe a tiny bit relieved. “I'll do it again. I'll see if I can do it slower.” John cracks his knuckles, grips the pole, and repeats himself, swinging himself into the inversion just as quickly as he had before. Only this time the pole spins a bit and John's dress falls enough to show just a bit of his bum and the gusset of his tights. Tim bites into black nail polish.

“I guess I can try,” Tim says. “I may as well.”

“Yeah,” John says. He slides down the pole till he's laying on the floor, looking up at Tim as he steps over to the pole in his practice pleather shorts. “You look really tall from this angle,” John adds.

“C'mere,” Tim says, cracking a smile wide enough that he feels it in the corners of his eyes and he’s a little concerned about premature aging. He pulls John upright and John takes a couple steps back as Tim grabs the pole.

“Grip really-” tight, John starts to say, but Tim has already swung his legs out from under himself and slid down the pole and fallen directly on his bottom.

“Motherfucker,” Tim mumbles, rubbing his ass with one hand and pulling himself up by the pole with the other as John cackles. “Shut up John.”

“Sorry,” John says, laughing through his hands. “I did that the first couple times too.”

“Couple?” Tim asks, pouting. “Shit, man. I can't afford bruises on my ass.”

“Some guys are into that,” John says, shrugging. “Give it another go. If you want I can go grab a couch cushion.”

“I'm not gonna use a fucking landing pad,” Tim scoffs. He huffs once, grabs the pole again, squeezes, and drops his head back as he kicks a leg out. He's sure it doesn't look very graceful, but he manages, and he only slides a tiny bit. He twists his legs around the pole and looks to John for approval as the pole spins a tiny bit.

“Nice,” John says. “You have the most awkward legs on earth but I mean, nice.”

“How do I get down?” Tim asks, looking at the floor above his head.

“Do the same thing you just did but backwards,” John says. Tim swears inwardly, trying to untangle his legs. “Or just slide down till you land on your back and then lay on the floor and do some dumb sexy stuff like I do.”

Tim carefully, gently, loosens his grip on the pole enough to slide down, slowly, his shoulders touching the floor first. He brings his legs down, relaxes into the floor, and sighs exasperatedly. “Fuck, man. Inversions are hard.”

“That's just a simple one,” John says. “Sorry babe.” Tim gestures his middle finger at him, rubbing his face.

“This is why you get top billing,” Tim says. “And why I usually stick to floor. Because I suck at pole work.”

“You don't suck,” John says. “You're just new at it.” He smiles a lipstick grin and Tim sighs. Fuck. Did he just get a butterfly? Nope, can't be that. He's just feeling dizzy from being upside down. “Do you want to see another inversion?”

“I guess,” Tim says, gathering himself off the floor. He dusts off his bum. “Don't do too much crazy shit. I just bought you coffee and I'd hate for you to puke it up.”

“I'll be fine,” John says. “This one is kinda different because you leave your legs out.” He grabs the pole the same way as before and lifts his legs out from under him, out to either side of the pole. His dress falls and Tim almost spits out his tea as he takes in what may be the most glorious sight of his life: John – no, Bette, with his stupid little bird legs kicked out and his ass up and panties showing through his sheer tights. Bette. Because Tim wants to shove his face in his ass. No, Candy does. Wait. Shit.

“Nice,” Tim says stupidly, his shorts suddenly becoming very constricting.

“Kinda hurts the balls though if you hit the pole with your crotch,” John says, squeezing his thighs around the pole and straightening himself out so he's parallel to the floor, propping his torso up with his hands. “This is pretty cool too. I can't do it without my hands when I'm wearing tights but if I have bare legs I can let go of the pole.” Tim nods, watching John somehow turn himself over and dismount. He smooths his dress down, smiles to himself. Tim just sips his tea, nods, watches John gather himself.

“You're really good,” Tim says. “I appreciate the help. Even if I suck.”

“I told you you don't,” John sighs, picking up his coffee and drinking. “You just need to practice.” He shrugs.

“Have you ever thought about doing a routine together?” Tim blurts, before he can stop himself. That customer's words had been stuck in his head for the past week. John looks at him.

“You're saying you're okay with me touching your butt and all that?” he asks.

“A client mentioned it and I thought it'd be fun and all,” Tim says quickly. He sips his coffee before he can dig himself a deeper hole. Tim has a tendency to talk too much.

“Oh,” John says, considering it. “Maybe we should. It'd kinda work. We both look like pretty goth girls.” Tim snorts a laugh.

“Yeah, if you wanted,” he says. “I think I can put up with some butt touching.” John smiles, just a tiny bit, and nods.

“I'm such a big scary pansexual,” John says. “Coming to touch your butt and steal your cooking vessels.”

x

Maybe, Tim thinks, as he's sitting between Brian and John packing silver glitter onto his eyelids, he's a little gay. A little bisexual. Only when it comes to John. He's not sure if there's a word for being exclusively attracted to women and men who are named John Lowery.

x

“I can't believe you're doing a double dance with the one straight guy who works here,” Brian says, sounding very betrayed. Tim reckons he's a bit jealous.

“Tim's my best friend, okay,” John says, making sure all the clips on his garters are firmly fastened to his stockings. “Maybe some other time.” Tim snorts, piling on another layer of black lipstick.

“I thought queers were supposed to stick together,” Brian says, pouting.

“Do you guys have some sort of queer club I don't know about?” Tim asks. John laughs.

“Yes, babe,” he says, ruffling Tim's hair. “We eat rainbow cupcakes and trash talk about _the straights_.” Tim frowns, smoothing his hair back down.

“Sounds fun,” he says flatly.

“I'm doing floor,” Brian says, pulling his crop top off one shoulder and flicking his hair before leaving.

“I think he's mad you’re straight,” John sighs. He sits down in his chair and watches Tim as he's finishing up brushing his hair out.

“Yeah,” Tim says, looking over at John. John looks especially good tonight, in this little halter crop top and latex shorts and torn black thigh highs. “Do any of your stockings not have holes in them?” Tim asks. “Just wondering.”

“A couple pairs,” John says, “but that's because I just bought new ones. They'll meet my sewing scissors very soon.” He smiles. Tim smiles too.

“We should go on,” he says. John stands up and grabs their coats, offering Tim his.

“I still think it's a little silly to put these big fur coats on when we're going to take them off in about thirty seconds,” Tim says, pulling it on anyway and fluffing up the collar. They'd picked them up for about five bucks each at the local thrift shop after John had chosen their song and decided they needed to go out in fur coats.

“It's part of the look, jeez,” John says petulantly. He slicks on another layer of red lipstick and smooths out his coat. “Okay. Let's go.”

It's not that Tim is anxious about the actual dancing part. He's practiced enough times to know what he's doing. Tim isn't actually sure why he's anxious. He looks at John as he peeks around the curtain and light casts in a line down his face, one dark eye dusted with silver glitter illuminated, and Tim blinks. Shit. _Now isn't the time, Candy,_ he thinks to himself. _Try not to stare at John when his dress rides up during inversions, bat your lashes at the customers, and show off your ass. Stay in your own lane._

Which is the plan, and the plan goes to shit approximately ten seconds into their routine.

Because Tim hasn't seen Bette this close before. He was John when they practiced, and now he's Bette. And Tim really wants to do bad things to Bette. Well, okay, John. Fine. Tim wants _John_. It's just that now is a really bad time to come to this conclusion.

Tim is walking down to the pole where John's already working, and all he can hear is his heart and the bass pounding in his ears.

_My god sits in the back of a limousine._

John's leaning back into the pole, and Tim reaches around and pulls up at his shorts, giving the front row a flash of the curve of his ass. Part of the plan.

_My god comes in a wrapper of cellophane._

Tim steps around and kneels in front of John, arching his ass out for the audience and dragging his face up John's stockings, leaving a streak of black lipstick. Still part of the plan.

_My god pouts on the cover of the magazines._

Tim stands up again, pushes John into the pole, and kisses him. Definitely not part of the plan. Not at all.

_My god is a shallow little bitch trying to make a scene._

The funny thing is, John doesn't seem to mind. He grabs Tim's ass with both hands and kisses him back, lipstick smearing chin and cheeks. Tim vaguely hears whistling, can feel the eyes on them, but everything is John. When he pulls away John grins at him and slips away, drops to the floor to crawl along the stage – back to the plan. Right. The plan. Tim grabs the pole and walks around it, lifts his boots off the floor into a spin. When he's back on the stage John is in front of him again and he grabs Tim's face, smashes their lips together, and licks into his mouth.

_Starfuckers._

Tim feels as if he's been onstage for an hour already but it's only the first chorus. Or maybe the second chorus. He's already lost track of time. All he can hear is John giggling once he pulls away. He must look like an idiot, gawking at John as he flips himself into an inversion. Tim almost hates how casual John is being right now. But there's a plan, and he has to follow the plan, so he does, dropping to the edge of the stage and to the floor to tease a customer in the front row. He pulls the bottom hem of his slip up to his waist, just sheer lace covering his ass now as he climbs back up to help John down. John drops his head back over Tim's shoulder, and Tim hears his breath, hears him say quietly to him, louder than a whisper but low enough for just Tim to hear.

“Eat me out,” John says. “Right here. I dare you.”

And, well, Tim has never been one to say no to a dare.

As soon as John is back down on his feet, he braces himself on the pole and looks at Tim, probably not expecting him to do it. But he pulls John's latex shorts and down under the curve of his bum, and kneels down to mouth black kisses at the base of his back above his garter belt.

He can't help smiling to himself because John laughs. But he licks, long and slow, and John rocks up onto his toes. He stands, arching, grabs John by the hair, pulls his head to the side, and says to him, “I'll finish that later.”

And then he finally gets back to the fucking plan.

_Now I belong. I'm one of the chosen ones._

The song nearly over, a very flustered looking John pulls himself up into one last inversion and Tim collects a few bills on the stage as he crawls along the edge. He tucks a twenty into the waistband of his panties and stands up, taking John's hand as they walk back to gather their coats and go backstage.

“What the hell,” John says, his face smeared with black lipstick from Tim's mouth.

“I couldn't fucking stand there and watch you do it anymore,” Tim says, pushing his hair back out of his face. “I thought I was straight and then you fucking. You're fucking.” Tim is at a loss for words for maybe the first time in his life.

“Whatever,” John says, grabbing Tim by the arm stocking and pulling him back into the dressing room. “I have a boner and you said you'd eat me out and now you better do it.”

“I've never eaten ass before,” Tim says, suddenly very sobered watching John lay out across his vanity and arch his back as he pulls his latex down. The smears of lipstick are still there, so yeah, Tim actually did that. Huh.

“Straight people are so boring,” John scoffs. “Pretend I’m a lady then.”

Tim doesn't need to pretend anything. It's John's ass and he's okay with it.

He drops his coat on the floor behind John and kneels on it, sparing himself a quick glance to check that Brian isn't angrily storming in to shout at them. Once he's sure they're safe for now, he goes back in again.

Of all the things that Tim has learned about John in the past two months, it's learning his noises that he enjoys the most.

John grabs the back of the table and purrs softly, chews his lips together.

“Jesus,” John manages to say, and Tim laughs quietly, tongue hot and flat over John's hole, licking steadily into him, and John's legs shake a little. Tim holds John's hips as he licks in earnest, and all John can do is to swear over and over again under his breath. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Heck.”

And it's killing Tim, because all he wants to do is to fucking fuck John into the table till he can't stand up anymore, but a promise is a promise.

“Oh my _gosh_ ,” John says pointedly, which is when Tim comes up for air and sees that John is _staring at himself in the fucking mirror_.

“Are you fucking watching yourself?” Tim asks, and normally Tim prides himself on his quick wit and eloquence, even during sex, but this is John watching himself get eaten out here.

“Yes,” John says softly, shyly, blushing under his makeup, and there's absolutely no way Tim can't fuck him now.

“You fucking little slut,” Tim says. “You're gonna watch yourself get fucked now.” John grins, biting his lip. “Provided I can find some lube around here.”

“Brian has some,” John says, and Tim looks at him.

“How do you know?” Tim asks dumbly.

“Because he wears latex too and to get latex on you have to put lube on it,” John says, as if it's obvious. “Quit messing around and fuck me.”

 _You learn something new every day,_ Tim thinks, as he goes to Brian's vanity and starts opening drawers. Feather boas, glitter, sequins. “Where is it?” Tim asks. John scoffs loudly and joins him at Brian's chair, opening the top drawer and rifling through makeup products before producing a bottle of water-based lube.

“Now fuck me,” John says. Tim looks at the bottle, looks at John bent over Brian's table.

“Here?” Tim asks.

“Yes, here,” John says, and well, Tim supposes he has nothing to lose but his job, so.

Tim reaches into his panties to get his cock out and opens the bottle of lube. It's not that he hasn't given anal before, it's just that there was never a second penis involved. He's not sure if there's anything he needs to worry about. He pours lube into his hand and warms it between his fingers before reaching down to lube John's ass. Tim watches John's face, watches John watching his own face, as he slides a finger in, and fuck. Tim doesn't even know if he can fit in here. John is fucking tight and he feels fucking good and if this is just a finger he doesn't know how long he'll last. He works the finger in, pushes another in with it. John sighs a soft moan and Tim grins to himself.

“Is that good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” John says, nodding to his reflection. Tim keeps watching him, adds more lube, adds another finger. John grabs at the table, pushing back at Tim's hand. So Tim pulls his fingers out. “Jeez,” John whines.

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?” Tim remarks, getting more lube and slicking it onto himself this time.

“Yes,” John says softly, breath hitching as he feels Tim press up against him and slide in.

“Watch your face,” Tim says, reaching around with his dry hand to grab John by the neck and lift his head up. John's mouth falls open as Tim hilts himself, hissing through gritted teeth. It's all Tim can do not to just go for it, but John needs the second to adjust. He presses his chest into John's back, hooking two fingers into his mouth and speaking to John's reflection. “You good?” he asks. John nods, closing his lips around Tim's fingers, and Tim goes.

Maybe it's because it's been a long time coming, but Tim starts him up quick, finding a fast pace that feels fucking amazing. John moans around Tim's fingers, his hands grabbing for a hold. He knocks over a container of glitter in the process and silver pours across the table and John. For a split second Tim thinks about how he's going to be finding glitter in his pubes for weeks but he's mostly distracted by John rocking back to fuck himself on Tim's cock.

“Shit,” Tim says, lube slick fingers trying to grab at John's ass or his stockings or his garter belt. John's sucking on the fingers in his mouth and rolling his hips back into Tim's and he's sort of overwhelmed. Tim dicks into him quicker, grabbing one of his garter straps for leverage. “Keep your eyes on that mirror,” he reminds John.

“Yessir,” John says around the fingers, and honestly Tim had never pinned John for being this slutty and submissive but here he is under him, dusted with glitter and sucking on his fingers as he gets fucked. And Tim isn't complaining at all.

Tim can feel himself tense up a bit, like he's nearing his end, and as much as he doesn't want to stop fucking John he really does want to cum. He pulls his fingers from John's mouth and grabs his hips, fucking him roughly. John grabs the opposite end of the table and stares straight into the mirror at himself, his mouth fallen open, little bits of moans slipping out. He's trying to be quiet.

“Don't you dare fucking quiet yourself,” Tim says. “Let the fucking people next door hear you but don't fucking quiet yourself.”

“Fuck!” John gasps, his legs shaking under him. Tim helps keep him up, still holding his hips, which is when he feels John get really fucking tight and he groans and Tim realizes he fucking came.

“Did you just fucking cum?” Tim asks.

“Yes,” John pants, still riding it out on Tim's cock, and that about does it. Tim dicks into him for only another five seconds before he loses it too, spilling into John and growling into his back.

Tim's head is still spinning when he pulls out. John unceremoniously pulls his shorts up with one hand, still bent over the glitter covered table. Brian's table. Whoops.

“Oh well,” John says. He picks up a handful of spilt glitter and dusts it over his head, shaking it into his hair.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks, flopping back into Brian's chair.

“Putting glitter in my hair,” John says.

“You're gross,” Tim says. “Let's go home and smoke up.”

Tim is pretty sure that when they're leaving he hears Brian yell after Bette, but they're in his car and gone before he can scold them properly.

x

Tim loves John, and that's okay. When they're onstage and they're Candy and Bette, Candy still loves Bette. And when they're at home smoking weed on the couch exchanging blowjobs and spitting insults at each other, John loves Tim a little bit too.

**Author's Note:**

> ao3userfeistycadavers.tumblr.com


End file.
